


Burning it all clean

by doctornerdington



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angry Sex, Catharsis, F/M, PWP, Pegging, Post-Mad Max: Fury Road, Post-Trauma, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5552471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/pseuds/doctornerdington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a time, she jerks her chin to the blanket spread out in the corner, eyes searching his face. He nods, strips off his clothes matter-of-factly, lies down and waits. She likes having him there, naked in his own bed, waiting for her. She likes not talking to him while the wind blasts and her blood boils.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning it all clean

_Anger is like fire. It burns it all clean. – Maya Angelou_

*

She is angry all the time now. Often she can hide it, and sometimes she comes close to forgetting it. But no—it always builds again. First an itch, then a spreading irritation, a slight burn sparking into a roaring inferno. Under the Mothers’ governance the battles are over; the roads are safer than they have ever been. She has no one to fight, nothing to punish, nowhere to rid herself of the rage pounding her heart, beating it apart. In time she grows dizzy with it. Can’t hear for the roaring in her ears. She’s not a Mother: she has been spared the yoke of wisdom. There is no need for her anger anymore, but it will not let her go.

She does not know what he thinks of her – not really. How does he understand her? It is not rage that drives him, but some other, nameless wound, and she is as ungentle with him as he needs her to be.

She has other lovers; assumes the same of him. With the women, she is soft, tender. Murmurs endearments into their skin like prayers. Her caresses speak of reverence, and when she cups a heavy breast or mouths at a softly curved thigh, it is herself she is learning to love.

But she does not sleep, afterwards, not even with a lover curled around her like a satisfied cat. She’s wakeful, jittery, tense. Might sigh and toss about until she can no longer bear the stillness around her and flees to walk with her demons somewhere else, away from the terrible comfort of a soft bed and softer lover.

Sometimes she rides out, then, alone.

Sometimes she’s looking for him. Sometimes she’s looking for a fight. Sometimes he finds her first, cuts her off, leads her back to his nest of the moment: not much comfort, ever, but always well-hidden and – his own.

He offers her water and they drink together in silence listening to the wind batter the tin walls of the shack. It is good that he is as quiet as she is. She doesn’t know what she would say to him.

After a time, she jerks her chin to the blanket spread out in the corner, eyes searching his face. He nods, strips off his clothes matter-of-factly, lies down and waits. She likes having him there, naked in his own bed, waiting for her. She likes not talking to him while the wind blasts and her blood boils.

When she can no longer contain it, she rises, teeth gritting. She turns and faces him; he looks up at her steadily, a slight flush creeping up his face.

He’s on his back, legs spread wide and cock bobbing, filling, blood-hot and already half hard. She stands over him, snarls and tears open her riding trousers, straps on her cock with agile hands: prostheses as natural to her as flesh. She wants to hurt him and love him and fuck him and destroy him. Not sure what she wants most.

She kneels, slides in between his legs and braces herself against the wall behind him; pushes into him in a long, smooth motion. He cries out when she enters him, a sharp, wordless entreaty, and then he bites down on his hand.

She withdraws a little and shoves back in, forcing his legs open wider. Under her, he gasps, writhes, pushes back against her desperately, but it only spurs her on to use him harder, to fuck him, split him open.

She is brutal and strong; he gasps and sobs around her as she moves. She twists her hips in a harsh, relentless circle. Bites at his lips, tasting blood. He groans against her, cock twitching against his belly in time to her thrusts. Her nails scratch trails of blood up his arms, his shoulders, clawing for purchase on his sweat-slick skin. He groans; begs wordlessly for more; grabs at his own cock and pulls and pulls.

He has never hurt her. Never. He’s one of the few. But she fucks him with the hate that lives under her skin and the white-hot rage that never leaves her.

The way he looks at her when she’s inside him – she’s given up trying to understand. He looks, though. Eyes locked, they pant together, sharing acrid, dust-filled air, slippery with sweat against each other. Some mad thing takes hold of her and she growls in his face, baring her teeth and pumping her hips, wanting nothing but to rip. To tear. Her hips still for a moment as she gathers herself, and then she thrusts in with everything she is.

His breath stutters out. He arches up, baring his throat, all submission.

Her hand reaches. She watches, thrusting in a quicker, shallower rhythm now, vision red, as her hand wraps around his proffered throat. She leans down and bites, hard, the skin over his adam’s apple. He cries out, his cock pulsing as he shoots rope after rope of bitter come. It makes trails in the dust that already cakes his skin. She has not touched his cock.

She pulls back and fucks into him one last time with a grunt, as hard and deep as she can. Holds herself there while he shakes and shudders and grits out his pleasure between clenched teeth.

His back relaxes down to the bed.

He had tried to touch her once or twice, early on, but had stopped when she’d nearly ripped his hand off.

And so he only watches as she blindly reaches down to touch herself, savage and quick, her cock still deep inside him, still – always – hard. She squeezes her eyes shut while she strokes herself, thinking of nothing, curling into herself when she comes.

Later, she licks up all his tears. She would not dishonor his sacred water.

He does the same for her, and they lay together. It might be the only time she feels stillness within her.

She leaves without speaking before the stillness leaves her. Sometimes she stops to lay a hand on his cheek where he lies. He turns to kiss her palm.

Sometimes, she allows it.

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes, I did use a Maya Angelou epigraph on a pornographic pegging fic! 
> 
> First fic for this fandom, and first heterosexual sex scene, I believe. Hope you enjoy!


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